Limits
by The-MarmaladeCat1
Summary: Kisame ponders Itachi's madness. [KisaIta]
1. Part 1, Kisame

**Author notes:** I do not own Naruto, if I did, these two would get _waaaay _more screentime.

This is slash. It involves Kisame and Itachi.

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**Limits**

Compared to Kisame, Itachi is small. It's not something that the large nin notices all that often; to him, most everyone is small with the possible exception of some of the Stone's larger taijutsu masters. It's only when Itachi does something to accentuate his smaller stature that the realisation of his partner's diminutive form really hits home for the Mist nin. Kisame doesn't want to refer to Itachi as doll-like, with his slender frame and bird-bone lightness, because the last thing he wants to do is imply that the Uchiha is weak. There is not a single fibre, either bone, muscle or chakra, of an inadequate nature in any part of the youth's body. At least, none that Kisame has ever seen.

It's at times like this though, where Kisame rests on one knee and dips his head to look into the low opening that Itachi has wedged himself into, that he feels the difference between their sizes the most keenly. He squints uncertainly, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the gloom under the craggy outcropping, and looks for the shine of Itachi's eyes in the darkness. There, at the back, far out of reach. Kisame shifts uncomfortably, resting one hand on the top lip of the opening and leans his head a little further into the low cave.

"Itachi-san," he inquires politely, "What are you doing?"

He is met with silence from the back of the cave and the slow, steady drip of water somewhere off to one side. His outward show of calm indifference is one that he has practised especially for times such as these. Masks for a ninja, should be as varied and easy to slip on as the paper masks of the summer festivals. With Itachi, Kisame has learnt that the best mask is often indifference. With genius comes madness they say, but then, Kisame supposes that they are all mad, if only a little. Except for him. He is perfectly fine, of that he is quite certain.

He waits a few more minutes, as long as he dares, not quite willing to risk his partner's ire by repeating the question, before flicking an eyebrow and rising to his feet, dusting off his cloak with his palms.

"I have secured us a room at the _Sailing Lotus_. It's on the corner of the main street, by the bakery. Second floor, room eight."

He waits. No answer. Kisame sighs quietly and sets off back through the forest to the town below.

---

Over the years he has been working with the Uchiha prodigy, Kisame has become accustomed to the occasional runs of mental instability that accompany the gift of genius. Throughout his career as a shinobi, the Mist nin has met many gifted, exceptional or just plain eccentric ninja, but even he has to admit, he has never quite met anyone with the same emotional edge that Itachi possesses. Or rather, it's more like the complete lack of an emotional edge. During their partnership, Kisame has seen the full range of Itachi moods, from silent, deadly calm, through silent, deadly interest, to silent, deadly rage. He's been on the receiving end of most of them, except perhaps for the silent, deadly rage. Kisame is man enough to admit to himself, if not anyone else, that should the Uchiha turn his rage and his Sharingan gaze upon his partner, then it is most likely that there will be but the one of them walking away from the encounter with any sanity remaining. He thinks about that for a while as he lies on his back and stares blankly up at the ceiling of the inn. It is not, he concludes, at all certain if that thought should not have read more along the lines of "any such encounter would result in the last of the partnership's quota of sanity being completely eradicated." Somehow he thinks, that feels more accurate.

It is not that Itachi is a raving lunatic; the youth is beyond such petty things as ranting in the streets, insane laughter or diabolical master plans (although Kisame has to admit, such things would be a welcome break from the actual manner in which Itachi does manifest his insanity). Itachi's madness, if it can even be referred to as such, is in his inability to comprehend emotions and emotional consequences, leading to his almost total disconnection from the rest of Humanity. Itachi simply does not think like other human beings. He lacks the ability to empathise, and the subsequent methods of his existence are often contrary to everything held dear by the average person on the street.

Because he does not comprehend emotional consequence or such effects his actions have on his victims, he has no need of guilt. Kisame would say that his partner lacks even the ability to feel such an emotion, but sometimes, just barely, there is something that might be a flicker of a reaction, a hidden edge of emotion usually distant behind those moody red eyes brought suddenly, inexplicably to the surface. It's times like that which truly frighten Kisame. It's at times like that he knows he should be either running for cover or positioning himself at the Uchiha's side where he can avoid the worst of the blast radius by being there to help it on its way.

And then there's the times that Itachi just loses himself completely. They're rare, and mostly harmless, and Kisame has next to no idea, even after all these years of working with the boy, exactly what it is that sets them off. During these times the person looking out at him from behind those Sharingan eyes is not the same person that walks the lands beside him, cuts down their prey with his sword and his jutsus, or furthers the goals of the Akatsuki through blood, death, fear and manipulation. This person looks back at him and _through_ him and does not see him at all. This person sits alone and whispers to himself words that are too low for Kisame to hear. Not that he has ever tried too hard to discern the words; somehow Kisame is quite certain he doesn't really want to know.

Over the years, Hoshigaki Kisame has perfected the art of simply _overlooking_ the rare occasions where his partner's outward veneer of polite normalcy slips and the veil of his sanity grows a little thin. Those times where Itachi's hands grip his sake cup so tightly that it cracks and breaks, driving splinters of pottery into his fingers and sending droplets of fine blood to the tabletop. It is better not to listen to the boy whispering into the dark because if you just wait long enough, his eyes will lose that stark look and slowly relax back from their whirling red and black to the gentle stationary resting state of the activated Sharingan. And to be fair to his partner, these incidents don't happen often and when they do, they're mostly short-lived.

It is well past midnight when he feels the whisper of Itachi's chakra in the corridor outside the room and immediately he rolls over in the bed onto his side, lowering his breathing and slowing his heartbeat to imitate sleep. He doesn't know why he does it, but perhaps it is because he does not wish to provoke the Uchiha's displeasure by looking like some doting mother waiting up for her errant child. The thought puts a self-deprecatory scowl on his face that is still there when the door creaks open and Itachi makes his way into the darkness of the room.

The nin makes no sound as he crosses the small bedroom and Kisame tracks him by only the barest whisper of a chakra signature, apparent only to one so very familiar with him for such an extended period of years. He listens in silence for the sounds of the heavy cloak being removed, its buttons popping almost too loudly in the quiet room. He measures his breathing by the folding of the garment over a chair, the chink of a kunai holster on the floorboards beside the bed and the soft creak and lowering of the mattress as Itachi puts his weight on it and moves towards him. Kisame waits quietly as the youth slips beneath the covers of the bed and stretches himself out beside his partner.

For a long while there is nothing but the barely perceptible sound of them both breathing and Kisame has just begun to allow himself to drift off to sleep when Itachi shifts abruptly onto his side and rakes his nails down Kisame's back.

_Ah? I see..._Kisame thinks to himself and cannot help the grin that stretches his lips into something akin to a snarl. He makes a low noise of protest in his throat because that is what is expected, no, _desired _of him and rolls onto his back, turning his face towards where he knows the other is watching him. Hands trail down his chest, nails scraping over tough blue skin, catching on his ribs and moving lower to do things that make Kisame's breath hiss through suddenly clenched teeth.

He knows what the Uchiha desires, they have played this game enough times in the past for him to read the exact request in the touch of his partner's hands, in the way they pull him down and pretend to threaten all at once, only to slip away and back when Kisame finally gives him what he wants and moves to lie on top of him.

It's always hard to tell exactly how far Itachi wants to go on these occasions. Kisame has learnt to read the youth's moods better than any other alive, but these rare times when Itachi lets his grip on both his sanity and his morals slip are so infrequent that he is forced to do more guesswork than he feels strictly confidant doing. After all, he is engaging in acts of a dubious nature with one of the most powerful, dangerous and currently downright unpredictable shinobi in all the Countries. Itachi is a psychopath, plain and simple, and even Kisame must ensure not to provoke him too indifferently.

So he lets Itachi guide him with his nails and his teeth and the grip of his arms around his shoulders. It is at times like _this _that Kisame appreciates just how small the other man is in comparison to him. From the way they have played this little game of submission and domination both now and before, Kisame supposes that Itachi gets a kick out of the difference in their size. He would analyse the thought further, but the youth is shifting beneath him, pressing against him in the most distracting way and it is a far more interesting prospect to reach down and sink his teeth into the boy's shoulder and feel his whole body jerk in response.

It is not until sometime later with Itachi pressing back against his thighs, gasping and trembling, the sheer embodiment of _heat _and _need_, that Kisame wonders if this is perhaps the only way, outside of torturing his younger brother, that the boy can confirm that he is in fact a part of the human race. This contrary willing submission being the only way that he knows how to manifest any vague resemblance to a guilty conscience, the only punishment explored being the one whereby he accepts that perhaps, just possibly, he too has limits.

Itachi hisses suddenly and stiffens against him, arching back against his chest, Sharingan eyes momentarily unseeing. Kisame holds him through it, fascinated and entranced by his own lust and isn't surprised when moments later when both their breathing has slowed, Itachi twists and with an elbow below the ribs, shoves his partner to one side and away from him.

Kisame does not bother protesting, nor pursuing, nor sulking. Instead he stretches in satisfaction as Itachi moves away and out from under the covers, stooping to pick up the kunai holster from the floor before making his way over to the room's other single bed. If they are to remain loyal to previous episodes, Itachi will climb into his bed, settle himself and fall asleep leaving Kisame to spend the first part of the night watching over them both until his partner reawakens for his own turn. But Kisame has been thinking tonight, something that has always gotten him into more trouble than he can reasonably handle alone, and so instead of doing the wise thing and allowing Itachi to sleep, he lets his curiosity get the better of him.

"Itachi-san," he says thoughtfully, amiably. "What exactly were you doing in that cave?"

As soon as the words leave his lips he thinks them a mistake. There is, after all, only so far one can push the Uchiha prodigy before he pushes right back; harder, sharper and faster than Kisame ever could. Without realising it, he holds his breath as he listens to his partner shift, pause and then, after a long, tense moment, settle again without answering.

In the dark, Kisame relaxes and lets out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Perhaps it's better that he does not get an answer, he thinks. There is, after all, only so much contact with Itachi's unique brand of sanity that he thinks he can cope with handling.

Kisame for one, certainly knows his own limits.

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Comments are welcome :) 


	2. Part 2, Itachi

I wasn't going to continue this, but then my partner's friends invaded my house and I had to lock myself in the broom cupboard with my laptop to escape unscathed.

Since I now have another chapter I can for the first time ever, do review responses! Pride! They can be found at the end of the chapter.

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**Limits, Part 2. (Itachi).**

They say that with genius, comes madness. The works of the masters so often accompanied by the snapping of the mental fastenings that hold the mind of the creator to sanity. It's a sad by-product of being gifted beyond mortal reach.

Uchiha Itachi has an altogether different take on the matter.

He observes as Kisame buys bread from a street vendor, the Mist nin watching the vendor's small boy tossing bones as the woman wraps his purchases for him. The boy is tiny; small-boned and quick-eyed. Olive skin and black hair, with eyes that peer up at the tall stranger fearlessly. Kisame kneels down at a comment from the boy, reaching out one large hand to scoop up the bones and toss them. Quickly the boy reaches over and rearranges the stranger's hands with deft movements, teaching him tricks and techniques for the art of play.

Itachi's eyes follow the boy's intent, disregarding the movement of his hands. Eagerness. Willing. Pride in the teaching of an adult. Enthusiasm and potential. All wrapped up in a tiny package of skin and bone; animated meat to give form to the burning energy of the mind it contains. All these things will slowly become lost as he matures, as his attention is diverted, his pure focus becoming blurred amongst the intrusions of the outside world.

Kisame laughs, deep and gruff and the boy sits back on his heels, amazed. The bones have been thrown, but they never fell to earth. Grinning lazily, the Mist nin reaches over and lifts a bun from the table. Tearing the bread in half he allows the bones to fall from within it. The boy stares from the bones to the bread and then to Kisame's hands, a thoughtful frown pinching his features. Laughing, Kisame ruffles his hair and stands.

Itachi's eyes remain on the boy as his partner exchanges words with the smiling vendor. The boy's face is serious, his mind working through the possibilities to reveal the key to the trick. There is no awe in him now, no childish laughter, only a driving need to comprehend. Itachi approves. If the boy remains that way, holding to his focus and the pure energy of his own will, then he may one day become more than just another nameless face.

The vendor hands Kisame his packages, tilting her head coyly and waving off the money for the bun with one hand. Completely taken in by his partner's presence. Let no-one say that Kisame is not possessed of his own dark charisma, Itachi thinks wryly. He watches as she pulls her boy away from the stranger before shooing the reluctant child back behind the counter.

Outside intrusions.

Itachi is expressionless when Kisame returns chewing on a piece of bread, but the Mist nin catches the gleam in his partner's eyes and slows thoughtfully. He follows the Uchiha's gaze back to the stall, yet he understands his partner enough to know that the youth's gaze is not seeing the bread display. Or maybe it is. Sometimes it's hard to tell with the Uchiha prodigy.

Kisame shrugs mentally and holds out the remaining half of the bun.

"Bread, Itachi-san?" he asks blandly.

The Uchiha's gaze flickers briefly to his outstretched hand before snapping away again. With the barest chime of bells, he turns on his heel and walks away. Kisame shrugs, not offended in the least, and stuffs the entire last half of the bun in his mouth before following his partner back into the street.

---

Sometimes Itachi feels as though the fire inside him is burning him up. Muscles scorch, bones char and skin vaporises, and he can feel the heat that radiates from the point just below his ribs spreading throughout his body in waves of white. It is perfection straining to be free, tiring of the weary constraints of the flesh. If only he could set that energy loose, transforming flesh to pure intent, then a true evolution could take place. In every fibre of his being, Itachi knows that this is the event that his entire life leads up to.

Every time he opens his eyes and _sees_, when he looks at the world through the lens of the Sharingan, that gateway into the next level of existence, he comes a little closer to understanding. Sometimes he gets lost in the second world, transfixed by the hand of his shadow reaching out before him. The world of the Sharingan, the true world, is always a step ahead of the physical and it is only here that reality truly reveals itself. Here where he too is pure perfection and all is his to control.

If he had his choice, he would stay forever in the true world.

There is a light drizzle of rain falling by the time they have left the town and Kisame is grumbling about inns and hot food and the foolishness of trading them in for a night out in the cold. For all that he was born and raised in the Country of Mist, the big man has always maintained that one never gets used to the cold and wet, one merely learns to put up with it. Give him a dry inn and a bowl of steaming dumplings over sleeping rough any day.

Itachi paces at his side, eyes downcast to the path ahead, thinking. The boy from earlier has set his thoughts towards his life goal again, his very reason for existing. In truth, the conundrum of his purpose is never far from his mind. It tinges his every thought, sways his every judgement and materializes in all of his dreams, always elusive yet ever a constant companion.

Limits. His abilities are bound only by the limitations of his body and the restrictions that muscle and bone and sinew place upon him. His mind, his very essence, is boundless in its potential. Free one's intent from the predations of the first world and the flow of purpose courses unchecked. If only people could see that. But they simply did not. Not even the greatest amongst his own family had been able comprehend the magnitude of their true potential, content to merely dabble in the font of true greatness. Too set amongst the constraints of duty and honour; tradition an ever-tightening noose around their necks.

He can see the course of the boy's future laid out before him, the Sharingan pulling back the obscuring haze of time and granting him clarity. The thread of potential, at first so pure, is twisted aside by the interference of others, snarled into knots by well-meaning outsiders until it turns in on itself and finally dies, lost and faded in the end to dust. Tangled in the threads like a burr he can see the woman's docile smile, a siren to trap the unwary. The spirit needs purpose if it is to overcome such traps, he thinks and for a moment another boy is in his head, large eyes full of weakness.

Walking at his side, Kisame glances furtively over at his partner's face. Even from this angle he can see the glimmer of the Sharingan whirling. Very softly, he sighs. Perhaps it is better that they not spend a night around people after all, he thinks to himself.

The sky is darkening by the time they reach a suitable stopping point. A grove of trees, enfolded on two sides by thick scrub, offers the best shelter that the surrounding area possesses. Itachi leaves Kisame to make camp whilst he fishes through their packs for the bread and meat purchased earlier. A small package wrapped in grease-proof paper is tucked neatly away in one corner and the cloying scent of syrup seeps from between the folds. He wonders to himself when Kisame had the opportunity to buy sweets as he tucks it carefully back beneath the rest of the packages. Indulgent, like a child, Itachi thinks.

They eat in silence, cloaks pulled up around their necks as water collects on the brims of their hats, pooling into droplets that slowly gather mass before falling. Itachi stares into nothingness and feels the coils of disgust stir inside him. He is edgy and irritated, unable to focus and with no clear cause for his discomfort. Kisame watches his partner's face, seeing beneath the stillness to the tension coiling in the wiry frame. The Uchiha's eyes have not lost their crimson glow and every now and then, the slit pupils curve and begin to spin lazily.

The Mist nin makes a show of tilting back his hat, peering up at the sky through the lattice of canopy overhead and sucking air between his teeth thoughtfully.

"Getting dark, Itachi-san," he says amiably. "I'll take the first watch tonight."

The Uchiha gives no sign of hearing him and without waiting for confirmation, Kisame rises, brushing crumbs from his lap and frowning as they stick to the damp of his cloak. Then, in a small shower of displaced water droplets, he is gone, high into the trees amongst the shadows.

Itachi sits with the rain falling softly around him and watches the shadows lengthen. In his mind's eye he sees the glimmering golden thread of the future stretching out before him into the darkness. It is as though he could reach out his hand and take hold of it, grasp the glowing cord and have it sear the flesh from his palms with its intensity. He knows however that this physical world does not connect so directly with the one that he sees in his mind, no matter how tangible it may seem. To reach out would be to grasp at air.

Closing his eyes on the darkness, he closes his mind's eye on the golden thread and leans back against a tree trunk. Pulling his cloak tight around his neck he huddles shivering beneath its shelter, even the thickness of this wool doing little to compensate for his body's scant frame. He is bone and muscle and tendon, there is no room for anything but the barest of flesh components on this small figure of potent intensity. No room for weakness.

Though his eyes are closed and the Sharingan for the moment lies dormant, his mind still turns in endless circles, gnawing on the unrest he feels and stoking his irritation to further heights. The cold is making his muscles cramp painfully and he has not the patience tonight to simply endure it. His eyes slip open and he finds himself watching the darkness. Beyond the tangled branches and far above the cover of rain-heavy clouds, the stars are burning brightly. Itachi knows that just like those stars, all it requires for him to burn as fiercely and with such intensity, is to loose all claims this earth has upon him. Shed the cloying grasp of flesh and become pure intent, unrestrained by any laws of physics or burden of rules.

It is perfection, the crystal clarity of insight. And superimposed upon the feeling, like a canker, is the image of a small boy. Eyes wide in horror, cheeks wet with tears, choked breath huffing in terror. Full of weakness and failure, nothing short of pathetic and fully blind to the second world. The fabled fire of Uchiha burning but weakly in that small, inadequate creature, no matter how hard his sibling has tried to provide for him. Tried to guide him.

Intolerable, and Itachi's fist hits the side of the tree trunk with enough force to drive splinters of rough bark deep into his skin.

---

Despite being under the heaviest part of the forest canopy, sitting high on a thick branch, Kisame is still getting soaked. Here, instead of a light mist of rain, the water gathers on the leaves and runs along the bottom of the branches above, collecting into fat droplets that splatter onto his shoulders with icy accuracy. A thin wind is threading through the treetops, and it lifts the strips of fabric around his hat, tickling his neck with them and stealing the warmth from between the fibres of his cloak.

Hunching his shoulders he tracks the faintest whisper of chakra that marks the movement of his partner below. A minute earlier he had heard the dull crack of the youth's fist hitting the tree trunk, sending ripples of fury along the tree's chakra web to where the Mist nin sat. Kisame had pursed his lips and shifted uncomfortably. It always unsettles him when Itachi gets like this, but he knows better than to question the youth on the cause of his anger. It is after all, none of his business.

It is only the barest puffs of chakra as his partner powers his vaults from branch to branch that give him away, but Kisame has worked too closely with the eighteen year old and for too long to be deceived. He feels Itachi alight on the branch to his left and crouch, still and silent, looking out across the forest. It is not nearly time for him to take over the watch yet, but Kisame does not mention the fact out loud. They sit in silence for many minutes, listening to the wind sigh and the small creatures rustle in the brush below. The land around them for miles is peaceful and quiet, the town at the edge of perception a dull throb of living chakra knots. There has been no-one in pursuit of them for weeks now, but still, it is the shinobi way to be ever-vigilant.

With a graceful leap, Itachi moves to crouch on the same branch as his partner. Kisame glances up at him and cannot see the pale, expressionless face in the gloom of cloud cover. He can hear the gentle chime of the bells on the youth's hat though, and feel the intensity of the other's gaze upon him. Itachi's aura is as ambiguous as ever, but Kisame knows him well. The sudden spark of anger from earlier has faded to be replaced by the soft scintillation of an underlying irritation, a _loss of focus_ is how he thinks Itachi would refer to it.

The Uchiha shifts closer and a hint of suspicion is lit in Kisame's mind. Carefully, wary of being rebuffed, he reaches out a hand to the shadowy form and runs the very tips of his fingers down the other's cheek. Itachi's breath sighs warm across his palm and the youth creeps closer, sliding smoothly along the branch on the balls of his feet until he crouches between Kisame's legs where the Mist nin is straddling the branch.

He feels the youth push up the brim of his hat and lean in close to place his lips on the other man's. Itachi's kiss is deep and full of a need that sends a tightness rushing to Kisame's groin. He feels the young man's hands come up to grip his shoulders and slips his palms across the wet fabric of the other's cloak, pulling him close. Kisame is not surprised to feel the slender body shivering beneath his hands, he has long known that Itachi feels the cold keenly.

The Mist nin lowers his head to speak into the crook of the other's neck, his breath puffing hot across the cold skin there. "Let me warm you."

Itachi shudders, from the cold or some other emotion, Kisame cannot tell, and snaps open the fastenings on both their cloaks. He slides himself across the Mist nin's thighs as Kisame lifts open his own cloak and drapes its flaps around the both of them. Itachi is a shivering weight across his lap, pressing chilled flesh against the mesh covering his stomach. Kisame pulls the youth hard against him, feeling the sharp expulsion of breath that the shift in pressure evokes and the blunt dig of fingertips into the muscles of his shoulders. Pleased at the reaction, he presses his face against Itachi's throat, kissing the soft flesh there. His partner's breath hisses from between clenched teeth and he lets his head fall back to allow the other full access to his neck.

Kisame moves his lips obligingly across the tender skin and Itachi allows his eyes, unseen by the other, to flicker closed in pleasure. He can feel the warmth radiating from the larger man's body and he presses close to soak it up, creating a delicious friction between the two of them. If he closes his eyes and allows sensation to flood him, he can turn pleasure into a focus, use the man beneath him to satiate the physical demands of his body. A pure mind can only be maintained if the body is not constantly demanding attention.

Itachi jumps as Kisame's hand finds the cleft between his legs and strokes him through the fabric of his trousers. He can feel the pulse of blood in his veins, heavy and strong as his flesh reacts to the other's touch. It's a powerful feeling and Itachi's body is young and responsive, swift to quicken and eager for more. It is here, beneath the touch of the Mist nin, the only human he would ever allow to come so dangerously close, that his mind turns to other forms of perfection.

Kisame's hands are deft and sure as he helps his partner undress just enough to let them continue. The touch of cold air sets the youth to shivering again beneath the cloak and the Mist nin quickly pulls him back close, enfolding him in his arms. The youth is all smooth skin and hot mouth, lean and hard as Kisame gauges the success of his lovemaking by the hitches in his partner's breathing.

Itachi runs his hands beneath Kisame's cloak, following the flat planes of muscle across the broad back and scraping lightly across the fabric of the other's shirt. Kisame's fingers are gentle but sure between his legs, slipping into places that make Itachi bite his lip and lean into the touch as the Mist nin hums softly in satisfaction.

Slowly, the heat builds between them and the youth's shivering eventually stops to be replaced by a tension of an altogether different nature. Even with his heart beating as fast as it is and his body as eager as youth can make it, Itachi's teeth find Kisame's shoulder and bite down hard as the Mist nin enters him. The large man freezes obligingly, his breath hot on the other's cheek as he waits for his partner's grip to loosen, before pressing him back and with aching slowness beginning to move again.

Somewhere between their opening kiss and the first soft cry that escapes Itachi's lips, the rain drops away to nothing. Up above the clouds drift slowly apart so that Itachi, leaning backwards to meet the thrust of Kisame's hips, can see the sweep of stars through the lattice of branches. He allows his head to loll backwards as his partner moves beneath him, his gaze fixed on the sky above. Kisame raises his head to the starlight and knows from the far-off look in the other's eyes that Itachi is close to climax. He growls low against the shifting muscles of the youth's chest, and feels sharp nails dig hard into the curve of his shoulder in response.

There is a delicious pressure in Itachi's belly and groin and he can feel the spiral of chakra in his abdomen building in response to the excitement of his body. Far above, the skies call to him and through the blood haze that is the Sharingan, he can see the heavens burning.

He cries out once as he peaks, pulling Kisame tight against his chest, his eyes full of the light of the second world.

So simple, so perfect.

Kisame follows not long after, his sharp teeth biting hard enough to draw blood as he shudders against the smaller man. For a long time they lean against each other allowing their breathing to slow, Kisame waiting for Itachi's inevitable retreat and realising only after some minutes that the youth seems disinclined to move. Unwilling to remind him that by now he has usually long since withdrawn, the Mist nin rests his head on Itachi's shoulder, enjoying the gentle loop of the other's arms around his neck and the soft press of his chin on top of his head.

Itachi can feel the rhythm of Kisame's heart through the cage of the other man's ribs and he thinks that somehow it beats in time with the flickering of the star he has focussed on. He knows at the back of his mind, in the analytical shinobi-trained part of his brain, that it is merely the after-effects of sexual exhilaration; a result of the cocktail of chemicals that ignited his blood and flooded his system. Pure biochemistry touched with the second sight of the Sharingan. Physical channelling into spiritual to become more. To become…

_Genius._

He does not realise that he has spoken the word out loud until Kisame shifts against him and makes a querying noise in his throat. Itachi's eyes narrow and he closes his lips firmly, shifting back along his partner's thighs and rearranging his clothing. Schooling his expression against the gleam of Kisame's eyes in the starlit gloom, he pulls a tissue from a pocket and quickly cleans them both up. As he works, hands sure and efficient, he feels the glow of euphoria fade. In its place the steady rationality of his purpose remains, a cool glow in the very centre of his chest.

Itachi understands the nature of genius, has always known what no other seems able to grasp. So few see what is necessary and far fewer comprehend what they have seen. True genius, the Uchiha understands, is the ability to cut free from the restraints of normalcy, burning away the ties of the mundane. The true genius is not insane, he merely sees the world in a different light, unbound by the limits and constraints of other people.

Flipping his cloak back into place, the Uchiha rises smoothly to his feet and without a backward glance, leaps unafraid from the branch into the darkness and towards the forest floor hidden far below.

For Itachi knows the secret of true genius, and for him, there are no limits.

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**Review responses:**

**Vicious-loner –** I know, I love playing about with different ways of portraying characters though, hence Itachi was victimised. Really, I don't think he does any of the things in either of these chapters, but it's all in fun so I don't mind experimenting a bit.

**Fantastical Queen Ebony Black –** I have no idea how I myself got into ItaKisa, I think it was in protest at seeing Itachi paired with Kakashi that did it. I just know I love it now.

**Song Min Dao – **I'm really flattered! I'm a huge fan of your stories – I squeed muchly to know that you'd read one of mine and liked it:D

**Smirking Arrogance – **Thank you so much for your comments, it pleases me greatly to know that the interpretations of the characters could actually fit!

**NNCS – **Lol, thank you! I know the set-up's a bit odd, but it just kindof slipped into my head as an excuse to put them both together! ;)

**blisblop – **I'm afraid I couldn't possibly answer that question. Itachi might hunt me down and Sharingan me. I hope the cry for more smut was sufficiently answered in this chapter. :)

**every you – **thank you! That's what it's all about after all ;D

**meheeners – **I hope this chapter has lived up to the standards of the last one! Thank you for your review, I'm glad you enjoyed the story!

**Raebef **– I'm pleased to oblige! ;) Glad you liked it – there should be far more ItaKisa out there!


	3. Part 3, Overflow, Three years later

**A/N:** For some reason, people seem to really like this story, it's by far the most popular thing I've written and seems to be getting a lot of attention recently. I guess it got linked somewhere or something. Anyway, because of that, and also because I've gotten back into the manga again recently, I thought I'd add a bit more. I had a lot of fun writing this.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

**Overflow**

It is raining over the southern borders where the Forests of Fire meet the high-backed Ridge of Okama. These craggy lesser mountains breaking against the skyline mark the end of the Leaf's influence and the beginning of the sweeping landscapes of the Country of River. Here the trees begin the climb up the steep-sided slopes in fitful bursts, pausing around the rims of dells and vales where the mists gather thickly and the drip of rainwater echoes strangely in the silence. In this place a small dirt road winds its way up the mountainside, slipping through the trees and crossing empty glades on its path into the heart of the country the Akatsuki call their own.

It is some time between early morning and midday, the exact hour lost to the blanket of grey mist and the pale diffused light that finds its way below the canopy of the trees. The steady drip of water gathering at the tips of the remaining leaves marks a hollow rhythm in a muted world where the soft curl of the mists obscures the distance before and behind. In this strange hush two figures fade into view with the faintest chime of bells and the coiling fog meets the darkness of their forms and breaks against them.

Hoshigake Kisame walks with one hand curled around the hilt of the Samehada and the other loose in his sleeve. At his side walks the Uchiha, his face turned down and his chin buried in the obscuring neck of his cloak. Above the dripping of water from the leaves Kisame can hear the boy's breath catching somewhere deep inside his body. It is a small thing, barely noticeable save to one so intimately acquainted with the rhythms of the other. Every so often the boy coughs, a muted sound that he conceals behind the thick black fabric.

Kisame ignores the sounds and offers no comment. Instead his gaze remains fixed upon the coiling walls of fog that rise up around them, obscuring the path and making the world seem at once bright and subdued. The scent of earth and loam fills the mist, permeating the waterlogged air with the fragrance of rot. It is nothing like the mists of Kirigakure, laden as they are with the salt tang of the sea, and Kisame wrinkles his nose and sniffs in distaste.

The road beneath their feet makes a sharp twist and suddenly the incline is much steeper, rising sharply up towards the crest of the pass far above. Now, below the hush of the mists, there is the rushing of water and the path ahead is slick and treacherous with the channelled run-off from the peaks above. Somewhere in the distance there is the slow, lazy roll of incoming thunder. Neither of them slow and Kisame makes no comment, his gaze on the path ahead. Beside him the Uchiha coughs and covers it discreetly with his cloak.

oOo

It takes them two days to cross the jagged back of the ridge and begin the slow descent into River Country. On this side of the mountains the trees are beginning to thin away as the slope sweeps downwards into the rich farming land of the River proper. They make it over the peak some time just after midday, their view of the country below obscured by the low-lying cloud.

It has been two days and still it rains. The mist and drizzle has given way to a steady, monotonous rain now, miserable in its chill and ominous in the thunder that growls intermittently overhead. Kisame tuts and glares at the sky, his eyes as dark as the black of the gathering clouds. He thinks of the cave that they often use for shelter when passing this way; it is close and they will reach it some hours before they would usually stop. Beside him Itachi coughs and pulls irritably at the neck of his cloak. Kisame decides then, naming the place out loud and his companion nods impatiently. The Mist-nin sniffs, indifferent to the Uchiha's foul mood, and sets off down the slope. Itachi coughs, spits discreetly and follows him.

oOo

Autumn is turning towards winter, the countryside changing from the glory of muted golds to a stark, skeletal black. A cold, blustery wind is chasing across the fields, gusting the raindrops from side to side and stirring ripples like waves in the long grass. Kisame stands at the entrance to the cave and looks out over the landscape spread below. One thick shoulder leans against the wall, the chill of stone seeping through the cloth of his cloak and surrounding him with clammy dampness. The ribbons of his hat flutter against his cheek, the charms chiming softly as the breeze touches them. In the fields far below, a woman bends low to dig at the earth.

This far up the side of the mountain, the only sound is the low keening of the wind through the high passes and the skitter of raindrops on leaves. A steady drip-drip of water from the ledge above mirrors the slow fall of droplets from deeper within the cave. Occasionally the crack and spit of Itachi's small fire punctuates the stillness of the inner cavern, the sound echoing sharply between the stalactites. Kisame blinks and takes a step away from the cave mouth as the wind flicks a sheet of rainwater into his eyes.

Outside, afternoon is beginning to fade to early evening and the first of the farmers are on the road home, baskets on their backs and tools slung over their shoulders. He watches them trudging slowly, tiny forms dark with distance, their heads bent against the buffeting of the wind. Almost he envies them the warmth of the waiting fire and the company of other men. Simple lives full of basic needs. With a sour twist of his lips he glances back over his shoulder at the young man seated in front of the fire, his back to the cave entrance.

It will be dark soon and it will not be long before the light of the fire becomes a twinkling beacon to any who care to lift their gaze to the mountainside. Burying his chin deeper inside his cloak, Kisame pulls his hat down against the rain and slips outside. Itachi does not move as his partner steps out of the cave, but Kisame knows from the shift of the boy's focus that his departure has been noted.

It would have been better had the Uchiha done this, with his delicate genjutsus and knack for subtlety. But he and the Uchiha are not speaking, even if Kisame is no longer entirely sure why. Crouching down at the side of the cave mouth, he casts around for a suitable twig with which to draw. Even if his skill lies more towards raw power and aggressive jutsus, Kisame is still a shinobi of the Hidden Mist. Or had been once, a lifetime ago.

The archaic symbols are almost invisible in the dirt, but the chakra flowing through them burns them into existence far more deeply than any etching could. Clasping his hands in the opening seals, Kisame lets the lines of the kanji funnel his chakra into the weave of a concealing jutsu. A short sequence of gestures and a quick flick of his wrist releases the cantrip and for the briefest of moments, the space between one heartbeat and the next, there exists a pulse of radiance, a slice of another reality. And then the jutsu burns away, leaving a sickly yellow afterimage hanging in his vision. Blinking, he tosses the twig into the bushes and scanning the surrounding area warily, ducks back inside the cave.

The change in temperature is marked, the glow of Itachi's small fire enough to blunt the edge of the autumn chill. The cave is damp and smells of wet cloth from where Itachi has hung his Akatsuki cloak to dry between two stalagmites. The boy himself is sat close enough to the flames that his toes must surely be near to singeing. Kisame pauses just inside the entrance, checking the weave of the concealing jutsu, before ducking fully inside and casting around for somewhere to sit. Eventually, having shrugged out of his own cloak, he hangs the thick material over the rocks next to the fire and seats himself opposite the Uchiha.

Outside the rain picks up and the keening of the wind through the trees marks the rising of the gathering storm. Kisame pulls meat and bread from his pack and sets it by the fire to warm. His partner has set out a kettle over the flames and he reaches out to pour himself a cup. The youth's eyes follow the other nin's movements and the half-glance that Kisame throws his way reveals the sullen gleam of the Sharingan whirling slowly. Pursing his lips, the Mist nin takes a sip of the tea and grimaces. Itachi is not good at making tea and the liquid has stewed for too long turning it bitter and gritty.

The wind moans amongst the crags and Itachi coughs, shudders and pulls his shoulders in tight against the chill. Kisame watches him from across the fire, hearing beneath the noise of the rain the catch and stutter of breath in the youth's chest. He knows from long experience that Itachi, with his slight build and bird-bone frame, feels the cold most keenly. To Kisame, born of the restless coasts of Mizu no Kuni, the chill is a discomfort that numbs his skin but fails to penetrate the thick muscle that wraps his body. He considers offering the boy his blanket for extra warmth, noting the shiver of the boy's muscles beneath the blanket he already has pulled tight around his shoulders. One look at the dull gleam of the Sharingan lazily spinning convinces him otherwise.

The Uchiha is not usually a sickly youth, and Kisame doubts that his current malaise will do much to alleviate the boy's habitual brooding. The Mist nin stares into the fire, listening to the drumming of rain and the rushing of water down the mountainside and thinks of Kirigakure. Sometimes, when there is nothing left to do, when they have found themselves fallen into a lull in their endless quest, and there is nothing more to say, Kisame thinks of how it used to be. He remembers the wash and drift of the tides around his home village, hears the cry of the gulls riding the sea breeze and stands once more with his six brothers of the sword and looks out across the bay to the endless horizon. Life was very simple then. He takes a thoughtful bite of dried beef and chews slowly.

Life back then had been blood and mist and cold, silver steel that reflected light along its edge like the crests of waves rolling in the starlight. Listening to the rustle of the leaves in the distance and the steady thrum of rain in the darkness, he thinks to himself that not much has changed.

His eyes are drawn suddenly by the flash of lightning that flickers at the entrance of the cave and the crack of thunder that follows directly on its heels is shocking in its intensity. The storm has finally broken loose. Kisame's gaze flicks back and across the shifting flames he meets the burning hellfire eyes of the Uchiha. They glow red in the shadowed hollows of his face and something inside Kisame freezes as he feels the medusa power of the Uchiha's gaze plucking at his mind.

No, he thinks as he watches the Sharingan spin, my life has not changed, but the stakes now are that much higher.

oOo

Uchiha Itachi is feeling unwelcome by the universe and somewhat ill at ease in its embrace. There is a throbbing pain behind his eyes and his chest is thick and full with viscous liquid that makes breathing a labour. He can feel it salty and slick in the back of his throat every time he coughs.

It started three days ago somewhere back in the Forests of Fire between one damp inn smelling of wood rot and the next cold, uncomfortable night under the sky. Something slipped in past the Uchiha's supposedly impenetrable defences and spread its poison throughout his body, so subtle that he did not note its presence until the damage was done. The greatest Uchiha of them all, the pinnacle of the bloodline's progeny, brought low by a fever of the blood. And fevered he is, and shaking so hard that it hurts him to hold himself still.

He stares into the flames and feels them creeping in around his vision until all he sees is red and glowing gold. Itachi hates illness, because illness is a physical flaw, a representation of the weaknesses of the flesh and an acute reminder that for all his achievements he has yet to transcend the bonds of the body that holds him to this plane.

And besides, when he is ill his head is full of darkness and the shadows stir strangely. He has never told anyone this, for caution's sake – a genius shinobi child who suffers delusions when fevered is an incident waiting to happen. Itachi was never a foolish child and he readily perceived the ways of an adult world and the interactions of those in the positions of power. And all those interactions fully indicated that selective accounting of his condition was the way to maintain his own personal power and place untouched in the world.

He'd wondered again three days ago when the first shadow flickered at the corner of his eye, what it is that causes it. Itachi has always known that when the shadows lengthen strangely and all the angles in the world seem off by a fraction of a degree, then his body has fallen prey to some ailment. He wonders if perhaps, as his body weakens it is losing its tenacious grip upon his spirit allowing it to slip free and drift between the worlds like a ghostly traveller. It is the only logical explanation that Itachi can come up with. As his anchor to this world weakens, so his spirit presses closer to the next and at the edge of his vision he perceives the first flicker of its otherworldly outlines.

It's an interesting theory and the only other person he has ever spoken of it to is Orochimaru. It had been a peculiar circumstance and Itachi had been very ill at the time and thus perhaps more than usually lax in his reticence. He had coolly and succinctly (as far as he was aware) explained to the legendary Sannin the path of enlightenment and spiritual advancement that he sought to follow. The leaving behind of this world and the evolution of self, until the greatest of his limits had been reached, and he completed the puzzle he had set out for himself.

For Itachi in all his glorious dark beauty, has a theory. And it is this theory that he is testing each and every day of his short, fateful life. It was this premise that, in the midst of his fever on that day some years before, he quietly and succinctly explained to the morbidly fascinated snake Sannin.

It was not long after that Orochimaru left the Akatsuki for good. Itachi wrote him off as another spirit burnt out and fallen by the wayside of true greatness.

The flames of his small fire crackle and spit and he watches as Kisame tosses another piece of deadwood onto the pile, blinking at the black and acrid smoke the action creates.

Kisame.

Itachi frowns and pulls the blanket tighter around his neck. He has long since accepted the hulking Mist nin's presence at his side. Accepted it, incorporated it, forgotten it. Kisame slipped into place like rising water or a blade gliding deftly between the ribs. The Uchiha blinks slowly. No, not like a blade. Not like anything so treacherous that he need guard against it. He wonders if therein lies the rub. He wonders if therein lies the _problem_.

He looks up and across the flames at his companion, watching the shadows play in the hollows of pale eyes as the fire weaves. A flickering sheet of white light suddenly flares into existence casting the other nin's face into harsh planes and filling the cave with the whip-crack snap of thunder. Kisame glances up; Itachi meets his gaze and looks deep as if he can discern his answers there like an oracle foretelling the future. He thinks perhaps, if he used the Sharingan, he could.

The fall of rain outside their sheltering cave turns into a downpour that hisses dark and thunderous and unwelcoming. A sliver of breeze teases through the entrance of the cave to curl around the Uchiha's neck making the youth shudder against its touch. He breaks gazes with Kisame and moves to pull his blanket tight closed around his chin. The Mist nin watches him in silence, gaze frank but devoid of intent. Any other shinobi's gaze would have been carefully neutral, calculations hidden behind a shroud of disinterest. This one has forgotten to plot, or perhaps never had any interest in such things from the start.

Colleague, associate, back-up (No, Itachi has never needed back-up - he doesn't need _anyone_) sympathiser, companion-in-arms, _dead weight_.

Itachi coughs suddenly, long and drawn out and Kisame frowns, leans forward. Itachi ignores him and settles down on his side, turning his back to the fire and the other nin.

Itachi doesn't need him.

oOo

Kisame lies in the dull glow of the dying embers and wonders what has awoken him. Outside the rain hammers down; he can hear it gushing in rivulets down the side of the mountainside towards the fields below. Overhead, thunder grumbles, ominous and fatalistic, like some unseen predator lying in wait. The flash of lightning that precedes it tells him that the storm still hangs in the area, reluctant to leave the mountains and move on across the lowlands. Beneath the mournful complaints of the wind in the crags he can hear the harsh rasp of Itachi's breathing, uneven and uncomfortable.

Kisame turns his head to the side a fraction and finds the Uchiha's eyes across the dull light of the embers. They reflect the light, shining with fever and the slow twist of the Sharingan. The Mist nin pauses a moment to gauge his partner's reaction and when the focus of his gaze does not alter, he rolls onto his side to take a closer look.

The people of the Water country are tall and muscled, with broad shoulders and wave-sculpted bodies, and to Kisame, born of the Eastern Coasts, Itachi lies huddled like a child, or a doll with fine porcelain features brushed red with paint to make it blush. It is, like the very essence of Shinobi, an illusion. Kisame has seen the pure steel inside the Uchiha's slender body, felt the razor-sharp touch of his intellect, and seen the movement of his flesh, coiled and graceful and swift like no other. If Kisame is the sword angel, then surely Itachi is the saint of the wire garrotte; subtle steel whose hold is unbreakable and final.

He lifts himself up on one elbow and to that Itachi does react. His gaze slides up to meet Kisame's and his pupils are wide and unhealthy-looking, beyond even the fey light of the Sharingan.

"It is cold," the Uchiha observes.

"Let me warm you," Kisame replies mildly.

He shifts to the other side of the fire, slipping down beside the Uchiha and there is a moment's hesitation as the other man watches him over his shoulder with something flat and unfriendly in his gaze. But Kisame has dealt long enough with the boy genius from Leaf to know how far he can push before being bitten. He pulls the blanket out from beneath the other man's form and inserts himself under it, flinging his own blanket over them both as an extra layer. He's going to be hot, even if Itachi isn't, but it is of no consequence, he has suffered worse in his time.

Itachi is shivering beneath his blanket and his skin is hot and damp with sweat. Kisame slips his arms around the youth's shoulders and cannot help but raise his eyebrows as the other pushes back into his embrace to better reach his body heat. The Mist nin rests his chin on top of black hair made greasy with illness and purses his lips. Itachi is very good at concealing weakness, and even he had not realised the extent of the boy's malaise. He had been hoping to coax Itachi into something more than a simple embrace, but feeling the youth's tightly controlled shuddering, he resigns himself to disappointment. It matters not. Kisame can be a patient man.

Instead he brushes the palm of his hand along Itachi's arm and listens to the rain pounding down outside until he feels the youth stop shivering and relax against him. Kisame remembers somebody doing that to him once when he was very ill as a child, but for life of him he cannot remember who. He is busy working his way through the threads of half-memories to find an identity for the person when Itachi shifts in his arms and turns himself round to lie facing his partner.

Kisame lets him move, lifting his arms to take the weight of the blankets and peers down into glazed eyes that burn with the embers of the Sharingan. Itachi hooks his fingers into the weave of Kisame's hair and pulls him close, pressing his lips hot against the other man's. The Mist nin is surprised, but collected enough to not draw back, and he lets Itachi push against him, pressing the length of his body down Kisame's own.

Itachi's kiss is clumsy, like the kisses they shared when he was still sixteen and learning what it was to kiss another person, and his hands fumble at the back of Kisame's neck. Kisame, for his part, knows delirium when he sees it, but with the red of the Sharingan hanging inches from his own eyes he is loathe to provoke the youth to cruelty. Itachi, after all, is swift to fall back on his Bloodline Limit if he perceives a situation to be turning away from his control.

And so Kisame lies back beneath Itachi's awkward, drifting ministrations and lets the youth push aside his vest to scrape his nails along the flesh and ribs beneath. Itachi follows along the scratch marks and places small kisses upon Kisame's skin that make the Mist nin snatch a deep breath through clenched teeth and pull the youth's hips in tight against his own. Itachi protests with a snarl and digs his fingers hard into the flesh at Kisame's waist, twisting cruelly, and the Mist nin laughs softly and releases him.

Outside the rain hisses against the crags and thunder prowls amidst the peaks, hiding itself between the shoulders of the mountains, coiling around their crowns like a dragon looking down at its kingdom. Kisame allows the sound to soothe him as he lets the Uchiha youth continue his play. He lifts a calloused hand to the other's shoulder and is again rebuffed. Itachi snarls something at him in a Leaf dialect that he does not recognise and then returns to his clumsy lovemaking, muttering words that Kisame cannot comprehend.

Eventually, Itachi lays his cheek against his partner's chest and breathes out a long, slow sigh. Kisame lifts a hand softly to his hair and gently combs his fingers through it, parting the strands across Itachi's back into threads that cling to the sweat of his fevered skin. The youth shudders beneath his touch and squirms, mumbling something incoherent before subsiding.

Kisame sighs beneath the lean weight across his chest, shifting the youth slightly so that he does not press into too delicate an area, and wishes for the morning. In his arms Itachi shifts, raising his head, and in the gloom of the embers Kisame can see the swirl of the Sharingan. The tension in the youth's body returns sharply and he says something short and curt in a Leaf dialect that is still obviously aimed at his partner.

It is the first and only indication Kisame has that anything is wrong.

oOo

Itachi is burning.

He can feel the flames of his chakra welling up in his chest, flowing out from him with every breath he releases, and as it flows outward it takes the heat with it so that he is left cold and shivering. Across the wall the real shadows stir, hiding behind the false ones thrown by the dying flicker of the fire's embers. If he closes his eyes their voices emerge from nothing, whispering that seems to come from within the mountain itself. He tracks their movements with the Sharingan, watching as they fold away into the rock when he focuses on them.

He knows it is his own body's weakness betraying him. A fever of the blood and the mind causing him to perceive that which is not there. Something in the back of mind stirs and he remembers an old theory, something about spirits and travelling outside of the body, something he believed in the daylight hours. He can't remember now.

Instead he listens as outside one of the great daemon lords coughs and growls. It seems important to him then to stay still and quiet, so that its attention will not be drawn towards them…Itachi frowns.

He is a master of illusion and the shadow worlds and this wild delusion is beneath him.

Drawing his thoughts in he opens the Sharingan out and _looks_ at the world. Kisame stares back at him and Itachi blinks slowly. He can hear the rain pounding down outside and the flash of lightning, bright and etching the cave in monotone, hurts his eyes. The wind whispers across the floor and the thin blanket does nothing to blunt its claws. He says something, words that he has forgotten as soon as he has spoken them, and Kisame shifts, rises and moves closer. Itachi regards him balefully, not interested in company in the midst of his misery. Still, when the other man slips in behind him his body moves instinctively closer to the warmth.

Held in the other man's arms, Itachi drifts, half-dreaming. The shadows return and he feels the press of people around him, like it was long ago. The shape of their shoulders and the tilt of their heads tell him that it is ANBU operatives, and the chink of a mug informs him that their mission is over and it is time to relax and recuperate. They look to him for permission and the glow of the embers glints off Shisui's teeth as he grins. _Permission to stand down, sir?_

Disturbed, Itachi rolls in Kisame's arms, intent on banishing the shades by keeping hold of the one thing he is absolutely certain is a genuine part of reality. He reaches for the other man's lips with his own and behind him his squad mutter and laugh amongst themselves.

Kisame is warm and Itachi drinks it up and focuses on the pattern of ribs beneath his lips. He is angry. Frustrated and furious at his body's betrayal, but mostly incensed by his inability to clear his thoughts and banish the voices of people long dead. They banter and joke behind him, unwinding after their long mission and the only thing that stops him joining them is the pulse of life below his fingertips and the rustle of the Mist nin's breath.

Kisame reaches for him and Itachi wants none of it. He digs his fingers into flesh, twisting skin to warn the other man off and continues his ministrations. This is not for Kisame's benefit, it is for his own, to keep him focused, though why he must do so with kisses is something that never crosses Itachi's mind.

All he feels is the frustration of uncertainty and the dull fury that he cannot simply close out the shadows in his head. To be forced to rely upon another human for focus is unforgivable. A weakness begging to be exploited. Perhaps, when he is well again, he should find another focus, one that does not breathe, or want, or speak.

As he runs his lips over pale flesh he answers the questions of his squad. _Yes, we can stop here for tonight, _he says. _No, let Megumi-san take the watch. Keep the fire low, there may be more out there._ And they nod and agree and sit back around him as beneath his fingers his partner shifts and sighs in contentment.

Itachi drifts. In his dreams his body is burning and it is with the bright fire of the Sharingan, of Uchiha. He can feel it searing away the weakness of his flesh, turning sinew and bone to ash so that his spirit can rise, perfect and whole. But he is trapped, pinned to the earth by the arms that encircle him and enraged, he struggles against them. Kisame, he realises, and his wrath boils through his being. The other nin is a dead-weight, a noose around his neck and in that moment Itachi wants him dead.

_Cut his throat and throw him in the river as you did to me,_ Shisui suggests.

_I can't, _Itachi replies._ He would simply swim away._

The dreaming fades and Itachi drifts listening to the rain, allowing his senses to spread outwards and check for any remaining traces of the Cloud nin that he and his squad have been hunting. There were eight of them confirmed, and he knows that his hunters have accounted for all of them, still there is something in the air here tonight, the scent of thunder that makes him wonder.

He can feel the hot press of Kisame's body beneath him, lean and muscular in the way of his people, but it is simply too much effort to move and the heat is better than the chill wind that he can hear gusting through their shelter.

_They're coming, _Shisui whispers.

He is brought sharply to awareness by the note of peril in his cousin's voice and when he opens his eyes he sees through the full crimson bloom of the Sharingan. Out there, in the darkness and the whip-crack strike of the lightning, there is movement.

"Enemy nin," he whispers to his squad in the dialect of the Leaf ANBU, and when he realises that they have already gone, to Kisame, "Moving up from the south. They're here."

oOo

Kisame sees the outline of the foreign nin pass across the entrance to the cave and freezes, not even breathing. The stranger pauses, seemingly by chance, and looks towards the cave mouth. Lightning flares and in its wake Kisame sees the shinobi's forehead protector: it bears the four vertical strikes of the Village of Rain. _Brave_, he thinks, _this close to the border with Fire._

For a heartbeat the Ame nin regards the cave mouth, then turns away and takes a step onward. Kisame feels nothing, not even satisfaction. He had known his concealing jutsu would hold, there had been no question of it. The prudent course of action now for them both, this close to the patrol ranges of the Leaf, would be to wait out the passing Rain nin, allowing them to move on to whatever doom awaited them across the border. Kisame wonders if they are lost, turned around from their usual route by the storm and following the line of the mountains to get back home. He moves to suggest as much to Itachi, but the youth is already moving in a swirl of black and red. Kisame stutters the beginning of his sentence, then breaks off to curse, rolling to one side and up, his hand already around the hilt of the Samehada. With a leap he is following Itachi, his lips stretched back in a feral grin that reveals sharpened teeth and entirely too much enthusiasm for the coming killing.

He has a moment to feel the flicker of his concealing jutsu as he passes through the entranceway to the cave, and then he is out amongst the driving rain and the howling of the wind. The twelve Rain nin crouched in the clearing outside turn dark, horrified eyes towards them as they erupt from the cave and Kisame has only a split-second to take in the second and third groups stationed further off amidst the trees before he is down amongst them. They shy back from him, scrambling backwards out of the reach of the Samehada, cries of alarm on their lips. _Amateurs_, he thinks as beside him Itachi cuts a quick, bloody swathe through their midst.

The second and third groups come to their senses, leaping forwards to surround them and the air is filled with the thrum of kunai falling faster than the pounding rain. Itachi wheels around and from somewhere he has a katana in his hand, its edge reflecting the lightning in brilliant streaks. He darts amongst the shinobi of the Rain, and as he passes their bodies fall lifeless in his wake. Kisame grins wildly and sweeps the Samehada around himself in a wide arc, laughing out loud as he feels the bodies of the Ame nin break beneath it. The blade hums in his hands, singing a gleeful dirge for the slain.

And that is when the jounin squad leap from the trees in a rush of chakra and the flickering of concealing jutsus dropped. They're swift and focussed, snapping out offensive jutsus even as they cover their descent with a sweep of kunai. They land between Itachi and Kisame and the Mist nin leaps backwards, his feet sliding in the mud until he comes to a standstill. He frowns as two of the Ame jounin join hands and point in his direction. Behind them he sees Itachi turn to look backwards over his shoulder and for one brief instant his eyes meet the Uchiha's and then the Ame jounin's combined jutsu arcs towards him in a bolt of brilliant lightning.

_Hnn,_ Kisame thinks. _They know Cloud techniques. Fancy that_.

He brings the flat of the Samehada up in front of his body to block the attack and the jutsu rips into the blade only to shatter harmlessly against its surface. The force of the attack is not spent however, and Kisame feels himself pushed sharply backwards by the impact. He skids in the mud, almost slipping with one leg and takes a step back to steady himself. His foot finds empty air and his other foot slides unable to find purchase in the mud. Kisame gasps sharply in surprise as the weight of the Samehada propels him backwards and over the lip of the cliff he has been backed up against. Across the clearing he sees Itachi's eyes narrow into crimson slits and briefly the shining arc of the katana as it sweeps round into the necks of the two lightning wielding jounin.

And then only sky and the emptiness of space at his back.

_Damn it_, he thinks.

oOo

Itachi cuts through the necks of the two jounin and watches as six more sweep past him and launch themselves neatly over the edge of the cliff after Kisame. There are three more at his back and as he turns to meet them he fixes them with the full force of the Mangenkyou Sharingan. It fails and the closest of the approaching jounin punches him squarely in the face.

Itachi reels backwards with the force of the blow, a surprised grunt leaving his lips as his feet slide for purchase in the mud. Bringing the katana up before him to guard his body, he stumbles for both chakra and balance. His balance he finds with the aid of a small amount of chakra to his heels, but the main bulk of his reserves are gone, eaten up by his illness and his constant if unwitting use of the Sharingan throughout the fevered night. Belatedly he realises that he has not the chakra to maintain the full jutsu and will be forced to make do with but the basic level of activation.

Bending low he sweeps the blade around in a tight arc that neatly removes the legs of the nearest jounin just below the knee. The man screams as he falls and Itachi uses his body as a solid base from which to push off, leaping into the air and scattering a brace of kunai amongst the milling chuunin that have drawn in close. They yell and scatter below him.

In the back of his mind he can still feel Kisame's presence, familiar and strong and not at all dead. Satisfied, he lands next to the nearest jounin and slashes for the woman's face. She blocks the arc of his katana and falls instead to the kunai that he rams into her neck with his other hand.

Itachi doesn't remember the Cloud being quite this pathetic, but then, he doesn't quite know how Kisame got to be on his ANBU squad either. If he sees the Rain symbol emblazoned on the forehead protectors of the shinobi surrounding him, his fevered brain simply translates it to something that will fit more easily into his delirium, as is the way with fever dreams.

Spinning on one heel, he defuses the remaining Rain jounin's poison jutsu almost without looking and sweeps on into the nearest gaggle of terrified chuunin, their faces stark and white in the illumination of the lightning, full of horror at the sight of the oncoming demon whose eyes burn a baleful red in the darkness.

oOo

Kisame twists his body as he falls, trying to bring himself around to at least land upright. But in the darkness and amidst the howling of the storm winds and the lashing of rain he cannot even begin to judge where the ground is. As it is he meets it far sooner than he expects and thus he hits the earth almost entirely on his back, feeling the shrieking pain of ribs breaking as he does. The Samehada lands on top of him driving what little remaining breath he has in him right back out again.

Around him he hears the soft landings of six other figures and frowns when he realises that for some reason he is completely unable to sense them by their chakra signatures. He assumes from the layout of shinobi he had seen on the plateau that they are very likely to be part of the jounin squad from above and he frowns further when he realises that the only reason he knows that is because he has seen them wearing the ridiculous striped jumpsuit of the Ame jounin. He levers himself to his feet quickly, ignoring the pain that stabs through his chest with the movement and glares around him into the rain and the darkness.

The rain pounds down in thunderous resonance and the wind lashes it into his eyes, distracting him with its fury. Shrugging mentally, he closes them and reaches out with his other senses. He's never had very good night vision anyway. He smiles as he hears it, soft and subtle amidst the driving rain, the sound of someone blowing water from between their lips, trying to breathe silently and listen at the same time. They do not know where he is, and he has yet to pinpoint them all. Concentrating on the location of the one he can hear he checks it over for signs of chakra.

Nothing.

_Unnaturally_ so.

Kisame grins into the darkness.

There is a vacuum of presence to his immediate left too and three more to the right, one more in front of him. With the water blowing one directly behind him, that means they have him surrounded. Six of them and one of him. _Good odds for me_, he thinks and wheels sharply, ducking low and driving the point of the Samehada upwards and out. There is a strangled cry and the blade sings rapturously as it drains the man of his chakra and his life. Kisame feels the flood of power and knows from its flow that jounin or not, the Rain nin was nothing special. The revelation hardly surprises him, the Country of Rain is not well known for its powerful shinobi.

It's a surprise then when the 5th circle lightning jutsu crackles out of the darkness behind him and almost blows him off his feet. Finely honed senses warn him of the danger in time however and he is already bringing the flat of the Samehada around to block the attack even as it arcs through the air towards him. In the flash of its dissipation he sees three of the Rain nin standing together, two of them with their hands on the shoulder of the third who has her hands extended towards him in the final activating seal. As he slides backwards through the mud he thinks to himself that there is no way such petty jounin could cast a jutsu of the fifth circle without some kind of ritual beforehand or…and here something clicks, unless they were somehow combining their powers without ceremony...

He doesn't have time to consider the implications of that because a second bolt of lightning crashes into the ground at the spot he has only just vacated. Snarling, he dodges sideways and sweeps wide at the fourth jounin who fractures into six and leaps away in all directions. Spinning, Kisame sweeps Samehada onto his back, his hands flickering in the seals of a 6th circle jutsu, one that will call a dragon of water out from the crashing rain around them. The dragon roars into existence and thunder rolls from its mouth as it dives after the fleeing jounin. It catches the water clones with ease, slamming them into the ground and snapping the neck of their creator with the impact.

Kisame turns to face the darkness and the five remaining voids of chakra. For a second, both sides hesitate assessing the situation, and then lightning splits the sky, illuminating the area for them all to see. They see the scored headband of the ex-Mist nin and Kisame sees the Amekage robes that the central one is wearing. He grins. They do not return it.

Kisame leaps.

By the time the fight is over, he can barely stand. Blood is running down his shoulder from where a fork of lightning took him from the left, and his gut hurts where one of the jounin slammed a kunai into his side. The blow went wild as he twisted away from it and the wound is long but reasonably shallow. For all that though it's bleeding like a bitch and it's dragging at his concentration to have to keep the flow of blood staunched with a chakra seal. He looks around into the darkness and listens carefully. He can hear the rain hissing down around him, making a subtly deeper drumming where it hits the bodies of the six jounin lying facedown in the mud. At least, there appear to be six jounin, but Kisame is no fool. He knows the Amekage was not amongst the ones that fell to his blade.

He waits, listening for the faintest step that will give away the ruler of the Rain shinobi, and as he does the blood wells from beneath his cloak where the rain is preventing the wound from clotting. He can smell blood, his and theirs, and it makes him long for the fight.

Village of lesser shinobi or not, the Amekage is still a Kage of a ninja village and his attack comes from nowhere. He materialises out of the rain, his body forming from the raindrops and the chasing wind and the katana that he brings down in an arc towards Kisame's head glows balefully with the light of a poison jutsu. Kisame blocks the blow with the edge of the Samehada and the wakizashi that the Amekage sweeps towards his stomach only barely misses its mark. The Mist nin snarls and kicks the other shinobi hard in the gut. He twists away gasping, and vanishes into the rain leaving Kisame crouched warily.

The next attack takes him from behind, and Kisame has just enough time to turn and slam aside the poisoned katana before the wakizashi finds its mark in his uninjured shoulder. He grunts in pain as the blade slams home and his hand spasms, the Samehada dropping from his grasp. He lets the blade fall with a snarl and with his other hand reaches up and grabs the Amekage's wrist, the one holding the poisoned blade. Twisting the man's arm he wrenches him around and knees him as hard as he can in the kidneys. The man lets out a low bark of pain and falls to his knees dragging Kisame down with him. Locking his grip, Kisame twists fiercely and the man's wrist snaps with a crunch of splintered bone, the poisoned blade falling with a wet clatter into the mud.

With a howl of fury, the Amekage brings his uninjured fist around to punch at Kisame's groin. The Akatsuki blocks it with his elbow and rolls sideways grabbing for the fallen katana. The Rain Shadow pulls back and as Kisame scoops up the softly glowing blade the man draws his good hand back to strike. They lunge for one another and as the Amekage's fist slams into Kisame's chest he looses the lightning jutsu he has summoned. It explodes in a blaze of white light and Kisame grunts and coughs blood between his teeth. In front of him, the Amekage makes a strangled gurgling and his shaking hand reaches up to clench around Kisame's own where the Mist nin has driven the poisoned blade up and through the other nin's breastbone.

They kneel together in the driving rain as the thunder of their jutsus dissipates around them, and then the Amekage's hand falls away from Kisame's and he slides over backwards to land with a muddy splash on his back. Kisame kneels with one hand pressed against his scorched chest and thanks his vicious, bloody ancestors for giving him the ability to use chakra armour.

He remains there, in agony with the hilt of the wakizashi still sticking out of his shoulder and tries to catch his breath. His head is spinning with pain and blood loss and the rain is driving down so hard he can barely lift his chin against it. He looks down bleakly at the dead body of the Amekage and his eyes come to rest on a small glowing crystal amulet that has fallen loose of the other nin's robes. He stares down at the dead Kage and wonders what the hell he was doing out here so close to the border.

He's dripping blood on to the other man's chest and without thinking he reaches out to grasp the crystal and lift it out of the way. As soon as he touches it he feels it respond to him. Normally, Kisame would not have been foolish enough to touch an unidentified charmed object without thorough inspection first (preferably by somebody else), but he's battered and close enough to falling completely into shock that he doesn't consider his actions. The crystal reaches out and wraps its jutsu around him and Kisame winces at his mistake.

Through the lowering haze of exhaustion and pain, he recognises the jutsu for what it is. A heavy duty concealment affair, ritualed up to last for some hours more. "Oh," he says out loud. "So that's how they were doing it."

And then, because he really has lost a lot of blood even for a man his size, he keels over forward in a dead faint.

oOo

Itachi feels Kisame's chakra signature wink out of existence and pulls up short. Two chuunin flash by on either side of him, unable to stop in time and he guts one almost casually as they pass. In the same instance as his partner's life force vanishes, some twenty more flare into life around him and suddenly something deep inside Itachi's mind clicks into place.

His eyes narrow as he looks around and arrayed before him he sees two full attack squads of Rain shinobi staring back at him with varying degrees of horror and rage. Itachi frowns. These are not Cloud nin and Shisui has been dead for years.

Something, somewhere, is not right. Reaching inside himself for his chakra reserves he finds them almost empty and it is then that he notices the state his body is in. He feels the fever still flushing his skin and the disgusting cloy of phlegm in his throat and chest, and suddenly it all makes perfect sense. He looks around himself and for the second time realises that Kisame is not there. Should be there, is not there. Was there until a few seconds ago, close by, and now his life force has…stopped.

Itachi's eyes narrow to crimson slits, and the gathered shinobi take a step backwards.

And then the real killing begins.

oOo

The last of the Rain jounin scrambles down the slope in the direction he saw the Amekage leap in pursuit of the giant sword wielder. Behind him he can hear the screams of his comrades as the crimson-eyed demon tears his way through them, butchering them without hesitation. The man must be demonic because he fights like he is possessed, his eyes narrowed slits and his mouth drawn into a fearsome flat line that betrays his wrath better than any howl of rage.

The jounin slips in the muddy water that gushes down the mountainside, and a flash of lightning illuminates the jagged rocks that his knee barely missed. It also gives him a brief glimpse of the clearing below and he takes in a strangled breath at the sight before the night is dark again. Down below where the storm runoff has turned the slope to pure mud, the bodies of his jounin companions lie in disarray, the mud around them black with their blood. And in the centre of it all the giant sword wielder lies over the body of the Amekage.

With a howl of fury the jounin launches himself downwards, sliding and stumbling until he reaches the bottom. He staggers across the clearing, ankle-deep in sludge and throws himself at the side of his lord. Furiously he grips the sodden cloak of the huge nin that has fallen over the other man and hauls him to one side. It takes all his strength because the man is truly huge, and once out of the way, the Rain nin searches frantically for a pulse in his Kage's neck. He finds nothing.

His eyes turn to the man lying in the mud beside them. He is covered with blood and mud and the hilt of the Amekage's wakizashi is still sticking from his right shoulder. The rain pounds down around them as the Rain jounin reaches out a hand and checks for a pulse. There, below his fingertips, a heartbeat, strong and sure even with the wounds the, the _Mist_ nin, the _ex_-Mist nin he corrects himself, has taken. The man is lying in a faint and grief and rage floods through the jounin as he thinks of the damage this one man has wrought. With a snarl, the Rain jounin reaches out and clasps the hilt of the wakizashi. Wrenching it out of the Mukenin's shoulder he takes a firm grip on its hilt and as the Mist nin's eyes snap open with the pain of the removal, he stares down at him, tears in his own eyes and draws the wakizashi back to end the man's life.

The blade never falls. The hand that wraps around his wrist halts the arc of the blade in midair, and a voice in his ear, low and calm, says simply, "No."

Horrified, his eyes roll to the side to meet the slow swirl of crimson and black, and then the Rain jounin's body convulses as the blade of a kunai enters his chest and finds his heart. Itachi lets the body fall to one side and blinks down at Kisame, his gaze moving slowly between the Mist nin's pale face and the bloodied kunai he has clenched in one shaking fist.

Itachi blinks. "You're still alive," he says.

Kisame laughs wetly and coughs. "Of course," he gasps. "It was only the one Kage, Itachi-san." And then the kunai falls from his grasp and he faints.

Itachi stares down at him unmoving, as the rain falls around them and the sky rolls with thunder. And then he bends down and with an effort, drapes his partner's arm across his shoulders and hoists him unsteadily to his feet.

oOo

It takes him almost three quarters of an hour to drag Kisame back up the slope through the mud and the lashing rain and the shuddering fever-induced weakness in his own legs. Once back in the cave, shivering and coughing, it is all he can do to throw some oil on the fire to get it going again, tossing on some wood before dragging Kisame's body close to the flames. He peers down at the other man's wounds, and wearily pulls a needle and thread from his pack, huddling close to the fire as he sets about stitching the big man back together again.

Kisame has lost a large amount of blood, but Itachi knows he is unnaturally resilient like most of his Water Country brethren. Moving carefully, he applies salve to the burns on the nin's chest, pulling him out of his filthy cloak as he does so. He peers closely at the charm the Mist nin is clutching tightly in one hand, but does not touch it. The faintest whisper of the Sharingan tells him what it is and suddenly he comprehends why Kisame's life force appeared to snap out of existence. Blinking down at it he realises that its proximity to him is masking his own life force from the outside too and he shrugs mentally. It is not wise for them to be remaining this close to the scene of the Amekage's murder anyway, but there is no way that Itachi can move them both through the storm in the condition that either of them are in. The effects of the charm will only be a benefit.

Sniffing a little, he lays himself out beside Kisame, warming the larger man with the heat from his own body and pulls both the blankets over them. It would not do for either of them to succumb to pneumonia after all that.

He lies there in silence, his blocked nose making life truly miserable and listens to the scrape of Kisame's breathing over the hissing of the fire and the roaring of the rain on the mountainside. Carefully, he monitors his body's condition and notes wryly that his fever appears to have broken. Certainly he has had no further ghostly visits from long dead ANBU or sacrificed cousins.

He turns his head to look at his partner and remembers suddenly his earlier ire at the man. _Dead weight_, he had labelled him in his fever. Itachi sighs ever so softly and closes his eyes.

Dead weight. Focus. All one in the same.

Maybe tomorrow he will consider the problem again, if he remembers.

When Itachi dreams that night he is high up in the mountains, lying in the flood waters of a mountain stream swollen to a river with the storm. He floats on his back in the midst of the channel whilst the water roars past him on either side, soaking him through yet somehow unable to carry him away. Somewhere beneath him, he is certain Kisame is swimming, his body streamlined in the dark waters, and his eyes bright pinpoints in the gloom.

Itachi lies back in the water, still and composed amidst the furious torrents, and stares up at the stars through the veil of the Sharingan.

oOo

They leave the cave the next day at first light, Kisame limping noticeably, the Uchiha wrapped tightly in his cloak. They step over the mud encrusted bodies with infinite care, and Itachi bends low pulling bodies and weapons into telltale positions. Kisame leans on the Samehada and watches the story of betrayal emerge from Itachi's careful placement of limbs and weapons.

When he is done, the Uchiha stares down for a moment at the scene and then nods briefly in satisfaction. Kisame unwraps the cord around his wrist and places the crystal amulet in the outstretched hand of one of the jounin women lying dead at the edge of the circle. It lies in her palm, winking softly in the weak light, its jutsu burnt out sometime just before dawn, not long after the storm finally cleared.

Then Kisame straightens, and together he and Itachi pull their hats low over their eyes and disappear soundlessly into the early morning mist leaving behind no trace of their ever having been there.


End file.
